


Three Chords and A Heartbeat

by LinkWorshiper



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 11:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5583529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinkWorshiper/pseuds/LinkWorshiper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is in love with a punk rocker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Chords and A Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Abby, on tumblr, who seems to think my degenerate lifestyle is interesting and wanted a punk rock Thommy AU haha. I had to get it out so I'd stop thinking about it. The prompt was something along the lines of 'We're at the same show singing the same lyrics but then you look at me when my favorite romantic bit comes on'. 
> 
> Forgive Tom's terrible song lyrics. They were composed mostly while stuck in traffic in the Holland Tunnel. Much Rancid and Ramones were involved. 
> 
> This is very obviously unedited. I'm sorry for any mistakes!

 

 

Thomas was friends with the band.

Or rather, Thomas was friends with Tom Branson, who was friends with a bunch of other lads that had become a band. They weren't particularly famous, or even particularly _good_ , but they had a certain energy to them that made their shows extremely entertaining, even if the venues and the crowds were only ever local and small. But Thomas had been there since the beginning – a roadie of sorts, who might not have known much about music to begin with, but was quite handy with electrical equipment.

Besides, it was something to do on the weekends.

Thomas had known Tom since they were small and their fathers had owned neighboring businesses – an antique shop that stood beside a car repair garage – and had grown up with him. Joined at the hip through primary and secondary school, straight through university, their relationship predated (and survived) Tom's discovery of anti-establishment and Thomas's discovery of men. Their interests remained common in the fact that everyone else thought they were weird; their main differences were rooted in the fact that everyone else thought that Tom was at least charismatic – and that Thomas was completely unapproachable. After a time, Thomas had grown comfortable in those shoes, and kicked them proudly: being on the fringe fit with the band's whole persona anyway.

Still, the other lads in the band still were a bit wary of Thomas. This was a remnant of early days, when William, the drummer, had gotten into a fist fight with Thomas over something particularly snide that Thomas had said, and Alfred, the bassist, had taken William's side. Their sour grapes had molded over by the time Andy had replaced old Molesley on guitar, and had influenced the newest band member to tread lightly around Thomas based on hearsay. It was usually left to Tom to put them back into their places, as Thomas's natural defense was usually too cynical for his own good.

But none of that mattered when they had a crowd. Their fanbase was small but dedicated, and always came packed with energy. Some of their fans were particularly loyal, and almost never missed a gig. Thomas liked that part the most about his role as the invisible, fifth bandmate: it was like being a part of an odd sort of family that had many extended relatives. And that family included _him_.

 _He_ was one of the band's oldest fans. Thomas had first noticed him nearly four years ago at their sixth gig, which had been in the back of a seedy pub near the train station and had a grand total of nine onlookers. Thomas sometimes wondered if that same light would have attached itself to the blond boy if he hadn't been the only person skanking to the band's then-unpolished repertoire – which, at the time, had mostly consisted of Rancid and Clash covers. At this point, Thomas supposed it didn't matter, for the image of the blond in his tattered jeans and flannel, scruffy hair flopping over his face as he threw his elbows and feet with rhythmic frenzy, was forever burned into his brain.

After watching him from afar for so long, Thomas felt as though he'd forged a relationship with the blond, who had grown from shouting punk rock classics back up at Tom, to memorizing every original song Tom had written in the time since. Which was strange, considering that Thomas had no idea what his name was or where he came from – only that his voice was like a baritone bell, and that he owned each of the band's records on vinyl. Both facts had been learned by Thomas while manning the swag table that the band sometimes set up in hopes of a few extra quid.

“Not that it's _about_ that,” Tom would insist whenever they laid out their array of stenciled patches and tee-shirts. Thomas was never quite sure what he meant by it.

These days it was a little harder to keep track of the blond. The band had gotten much more popular since then, and Thomas often had to settle for brief glimpses he'd catch when the blond was thrown up on top of the crowd, bouncing across flying hands that Thomas envied from afar. Under the grungy lights, Thomas thought the blond was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, like something uncanny and raw. It was funny, because sometimes it seemed like the only reason Thomas came to the band's shows anymore was to see the blond, and yet while he was there, he would hang back in the shadows, waiting for something that scared him for reasons unnamed.

One night, that all changed.

It was the band's fifth anniversary, and the little venue they'd booked for the occasion was packed well beyond its 100-person capacity. Courtesy of Tom's girlfriend, Sybil, Thomas had been freed from swag-table duty and had taken up residence on top of one of the larger amps crammed in the back of the tiny stage, as he usually liked to do when he watched them perform. He always had the best view of the room from that perch, and it wasn't as if anyone ever paid him any mind when he did. Those were the times the music made the most sense to him, with the electric thump of it quivering up his spine and the energy of the crowd blasting back into his face. A few times, he'd even caught himself mouthing lyrics from his Fender throne, when the pulse overtook him and he forgot that he was alone.

“I want to thank all of you for comin' out here tonight,” Tom was telling the audience towards the end of their set. He and the other band members were wearing matching patchwork waistcoats and red bowties. “Especially those of you who've been comin' out to see us since we first started out.”

The crowd hollered and devil horns were thrown. They had quieted down from the last song, but they were still mashed up against the stage with bruised knees, ready to throw themselves at the mercy of the rock gods with even the slightest twitch of a guitar string. Thomas took the opportunity to seek out the blond, who was standing right in front of Tom, forced to lean on the stage on one hand with the weight of the crowd pushing up against him from behind. The sweat on his brow glistened green then pink in the flashing lights; his cheeks to the tip of his nose were boiled to a flush. He seemed to revel in the aggression as he held his ground.

But Tom held them at bay with his easy sway over them. “But I think it's about time all of you knew that we wouldn't even _be_ here if it weren't for one very important person,” Tom went on with a slightly intoxicated swagger as he hung off his microphone stand. “Someone who's more punk rock than anyone I've ever met. My best friend –“

He swung a stiff finger around to the back of the stage, directing all the world's attention right at Thomas, which mortified him beyond all reason – because he knew that _he_ was looking too. Thomas could feel the blond's eyes on him with an ice blue that cut a shiver down his back. His ears popped with white noise and backfeed, muzzling Tom's voice. For an instant, Thomas was floating with the blond, alone, as the rest of the room became unimportant.

“So, that's why we're goin' to sing one we haven't done in a while,” Tom continued. “But it was the first song of ours that anyone ever noticed, and you wouldn't have The Staff as you know us today without it!”

Thomas snapped back to reality. He froze, suddenly anticipating what Tom was about to tell the whole lot of them, and desperately prayed that Tom wasn't so drunk that some of their boys' conversations were about to be leaked to a room full of strangers – and _him_.

Tom said: “So you can thank Thomas there for it, because I wrote it about him!”

William rolled his sticks across the snare drum and pumped the kick for effect, finishing it off with a slap at a cymbal.

“And if you're wonderin' why you haven't heard us do this one in a while, you can _also_ thank Thomas for that,” Tom said, probably to win a laugh out of the crowd, though Thomas was still afraid that Tom was going to go too far. He wished he was invisible as Tom announced: “Because it embarrassed him so much, that he made me swear to never play it in his presence.” Tom twisted around to shoot Thomas a devilish grin that had never been pinned to his features before: “Sorry, Thomas,” he said; “But it's hard to stick to that when you're at _every_ show.”

Thomas quickly looked away, his fingers curling around the edge of the amp he still sat atop. It rumbled with Tom's voice as he shouted out the first line of the band's most iconic song.

“ _His heart go –“_

The audience snatched the hook right from Tom's lips, and chanted it back at him in an excited frenzy.

“ _RATTLE, RATTLE!”_

It was like a shotgun had gone off the moment it began. The thrust of the crowd became much more intense, crushing up against the stage with the repeated churn of the ocean's waves. Elbows were thrown and bodies were shoved, boots sliding across a floor mopped with ale. Tom was already jumping up and down, bouncing between Andy and Alfred like a pingpong ball as he led the audience with lyrics that became more of a hopelessly garbled yell than a tune.

The blond wasted no time in marking his enthusiasm. With an athletic bound, he scrambled up onto the stage and ran for Tom, making a grab for the microphone stand to commandeer it for himself. Tom easily relinquished it, far too amused and happy to have someone do the work for him, and encouraged by popping in on the last word or two of each line like a backup vocalist.

“ _He slipped and broke his neck on this feeling!_  
_That little punk makes him hit the ceiling!  
__Little punk, you got him reeling!”_

Thomas could feel the surreptitious glances Tom kept passing him behind the blond's back. The identity of Thomas's crush on him had been no secret between best friends, but for the first time, Tom's knowledge of it suddenly seemed dangerous. The music was so loud, Thomas had the irrational, deafening fear that Tom was drunkenly divulging the details of the song's inspiration to the blond, instantly murdering the stasis of the unknown by scaring him away with Thomas's desires. The proximity of each factor looked like it was all on a terrifying collision course that only ended in disappointment for Thomas – as usual.

“ _His heart go_  
_Rattle, rattle_  
_Up and down his ribs!_  
_Rattle, rattle  
__Every time he fibs!"_

But then, as Thomas continued to be entranced by the blond's magnetic aura, the fear slipped away. For the chorus, the blond wrested for control of the microphone with Tom until they were both shouting into its meshed cap with unhindered gusto. The hues that bathed the stage seemed to all radiate from the blond, painting the folds of his shirt against his torso and ripping the holes in his jeans. A rivet of safety pins gleamed from blue to yellow along his thigh.

“ _His heart go_  
_Rattle, rattle,  
__'Cause you look so nice!”_

Thomas didn't even stop himself from staring anymore.

“ _Rattle, rattle:  
__You make him look twice!”_

Then Thomas realized the blond was looking right back at him. The beat of the amplifier beneath Thomas replaced his pulse.

Their eyes met for only a millisecond before the blond ditched the microphone with Tom and took a running leap off the edge of the stage, diving into a sea of hands that caught him and tossed him back and forth across their undulating surface. The blond threw himself back with glee, kicking his feet up high enough that he was walking across the ceiling as the people beneath him lifted him up. He soared high, and then crashed beneath the waves. The cacophony of sound and vision snuffed out the moment Thomas lost sight of him, but his drumbeat pulse was still hammering out of control when he thought of the blond's piercing gaze.

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the darkness and clamped onto his knee. Thomas startled, wondering where it had come from, and snapped his focus down to a row of bleeding knuckles and knobby fingers. He followed the line of it around the line of a tattoo that twisted around a slender wrist and up a well-toned bicep; then there was a Stone Roses tee-shirt and a long neck – punctuated by sharp blue eyes. It was the blond, back up onstage and now standing in the blast of Thomas's amplifier, his back to the crowd as he started to sing the next verse.

“ _He likes the flavors that're all askew!  
__He likes them tastes 'cause they're the same as you!”_

Thomas instantly forgot he where he was. His lips formed the lyrics he pretended not to know.

“ _Little punk, you wanna try somethin' new?”_

Then the blond was mouthing something that didn't fit with the rest of the song. Thomas furrowed a brow at him, sliding off the amp so that he could bend closer to the blond's mouth, his soul cranked up enough that he thought he might die from the shock of it.

“ _Jimmy_ ,” the blond shouted, his breath hot against Thomas's ear. “Me name's Jimmy!”

Thomas tried the shape of it, even though his first iteration of Jimmy's name was swallowed up by the song's final swell. He decided it fit well around his tongue.

Jimmy leaned in again, and said by way of introduction: “And you make me heart go –!”

 

–

END

–

 


End file.
